Terrorists

By Marcus Clark

Part Aboriginal Conrad Warren is on his uppers when he is offered a job spying on an anti-Israeli terrorist cell in his hometown, Sydney. Intelligent, sceptical and humane, Conrad finds himself drawn into a violent world of danger, double-dealing, and into a love affair with Zayna. But Conrad has been set up. Wanted for murder and terrorism, he and Zayna are on the run. This is a taut and unforgettable thriller spiced with humour and compassion.

 

This gripping new work by Marcus Clark provides an unusually thoughtful perspective on terrorism. There are no simple answers here. Clark's careful research, and his historical background on events in Israel, the West Bank, and Lebanon, plus glimpses of day-to-day life in the West Bank, make credible if not always sympathetic human beings of cold-blooded killers. Many readers will be glad of the extensive bibliography to enhance their knowledge and understanding of a tricky and sensitive subject. Clark's use of a part-Aboriginal hero adds a further dimension to a story of alienation and the search for a sense of belonging.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Download eBooks
• Release date: Jul 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201609740

Marcus Clark

Marcus Clark   I have always had an interest in fiction and contemporary history. In my novels I combine recent events with an overlay of fiction, intertwining the two. I have written eleven novels, which are being re-published one by one.   My intention is to write novels that will involve the reader so that they are absorbed into the story and the events they are reading about. MORE BOOKS BY MARCUS CLARK: Coral's Rules The Eve of Destruction Exit Visa Inside Mystic Lodge Terrorists Against Their Will Sheba's Vow Bad Seed (And Other Short Stories) Steamy Short Stories How I became a Guru (And Other Short Stories) Katy and the free-running chooks

Book preview

HE AIN'T HEAVY . . .  HE'S MY BROTHER

––––––––

Conrad felt miserable as he walked back to his flat in Newtown. He had never drawn unemployment money from the government. It was pride and the embarrassment of dependency that weighed against him. His bank account now held one dollar and his wallet seven dollars thirty-five cents. If he registered for Job Search Allowance, he could escape the threatening destitution. The only good thing was he still had two weeks rent paid on his flat. If he could get Hedgeman's job then that would get him out of financial trouble. He didn't trust Hedgeman; there was bound to be some unpleasant catch to it. The smug grin as he had driven away in the police car confirmed it.

Conrad sauntered along Lennis Street, and turned into Chelmer Street, one of Newtown's more dilapidated areas. The houses, two-storey terraces, were collectively falling into disrepair; the bricks were chipped, the mortar cracked in zigzag patterns running downwards like water finding its way to the sea, roofing iron lifting at the ridge-caps, nails rusted away, paint flaked and peeled off, drainpipes with rust holes and no visible means of support, mini-gardens gone to weed, front yards concreted over but now cracked and sunken like graves, asphalt footpaths softened and melted in the summer heat, cars abandoned after lifetimes of selfless work, bleeding their last oil into the gutters, letter boxes askew, unhinged and numberless, a last receptacle for bills and junk mail.

As Conrad drew level with his own house, he heard voices. It wasn't until he opened the front gate that he saw the two Aboriginal men sitting on his steps.

'Hiya, Conrad! We was waitin' for you to get back.'

'What's the matter, Jack?'

'Nothing. I brought a mate over to see you. Let's go inside, huh?'

Conrad felt nervous and weary. In his heart he knew he was a misfit, caught in the twilight world halfway between his Aboriginal ancestors and the white race, belonging to neither, and neither race letting him choose.

He looked at Jack's mate and took a cautious dislike to him. He was overweight, muscular, with hooded eyes; a Koori used-car salesman.

'Sure, come in, but I've got to go out soon. I'm looking for a job.'

Jack introduced Masher, who produced a bottle of wine. 'Got some glasses, Conrad?'

'Uh, sure. None for me, thanks. I'll make some tea. What would you like, Jack?'

'Coffee for me.'

Masher was firm: 'I'll stick with the plonk.' He filled his glass to the brim with port. 'Doancha drink, Conrad?'

'No, makes me sick. And I act stupid.'

'Sure, but it's worth it.' Masher laughed. He was sipping and giggling. 'Brother, you got a little tucker? I'm sure getting hungry.'

'Nothing much. Just some bread, but there's no butter.'

'Didn't you get dole money this week? Or you spending it all on women?' Jack asked.

Conrad passed a mug of coffee to Jack. 'I don't take the dole, not yet anyway.'

'But you ain't working,' Jack persisted. 'If you ain't got a job then you got a right to take the dole, same as all the gubbers do.'

'Yeah, I know. I'm just not happy about taking it.'

'Then what are you gunna do?' Masher asked in his deep voice. 'What you gunna eat, brother? Where you gunna sleep?'

'I've still got seven dollars.'

They laughed. 'That won't buy no six pack.'

'Jack, I gotta go out soon to see about a job. Was there something you wanted to see me about?'

'Sure is, Conrad.' He took a sip of coffee. 'You see, Masher here comes from up Taree way and you know they got this court case on at the moment, we going for land rights. A million hectares out back of Taree. Okay, so maybe we won't get the lot, but whatever we get is a start, right, Masher?'

Masher lay down on the bed, swallowed the last of his glass of port and looked closely at Conrad. 'They reckon you're a good talker. Jack reckons you know all long words and stuff. I saw a video of you talking to them reporters on TV last year, remember that union stuff? Reckon you gave them gubbers some smart answers. We need you in the court case, so we want you to come down to the court and give evidence. Answer questions and stuff; piece of piss. Them white lawyers are always trying to twist our words and make it seem like it means sumpin else. You with us, brother?'

'Well ... I could be working. I gotta see about a job this arvo.'

'What job is that?'

'Uh? At the ... airport. Carrying luggage or something they said. When would I have to—'

'Wednesday. We'll pick you up in a taxi and go into the city. Right?'

Conrad was floundering, looking for a way out. 'I don't know, Masher. I don't come from Taree way, and I don't know where my people are from.'

'Hey, no worries! You can tell them anything. Who can prove you wrong? Besides, it don't matter where you come from. We just want you to give some of those smart-alec answers if them lawyers try and put us down.'

'You'd better tell me about this land rights claim then.' Conrad sipped his tea and turned away, looking out the grubby window into the grey street.

'A million hectares. We get that and all our people can get back to the land and out of this white man's prison. We can hunt and fish and live like the old days. We owe whitey nothing when we got our own land; no police to come pickin' on us, arrestin' us. We can build our own houses, speak our old languages, learn the old ways. Kids will have respect for elders, we can bring back our tribal laws. When we have land, we will be strong again— away from poisoned air, these factories, this dirty white man's world. We can start a fresh life.'

Conrad stared at the almost empty bottle of port wine. 'Not if you take the grog with you.'

Masher stood up angrily. 'Conrad, you're just doin' sweet without the grog, bully for you— but it's the only thing keeps us Kooris going when we got to live in whitey's city. When we get out on our own land again, we won't need no grog to get us through the day.'

'Then give it up now.'

'I'll give this shit up when I'm ready and I don't need no fartarse like you to tell me when!' He moved closer, his fists clenched.

Conrad swallowed nervously, not wanting a fight. 'I guess it's everyone's decision.'

'Then you'll speak for us in the court?'

'Uh. I'm not sure. Give me a day or two to think about it. I want to see if I get this job.'

'A day? Okay, brother Conrad. This is important to us Taree Kooris, you know? You won't let your people down, I reckon. There's a big company called Footwork Exports, they got men trying to stop us, lawyers and other blokes. They already offered me a trip to Perth and five thousand bucks.'

'What for?'

Jack and Masher laughed. 'To keep my mouth shut. Now that's mighty temptin' money, but I think of my people. I'm not thinkin' of meself; I'm thinkin' of our people. A job's nothing. You help us get them land rights and you don't have to work for gubbers no more. You can come up to Taree with us. Best damn land in Australia. We get that land and we all rich, right? We lose, Conrad, and we all dead. You get it, Conrad? We all soon be dead, some sooner, some later. We just got to fight— and anyone, black or white, that gets in our way is gunna get hurt. Just don't you worry none about any job. You go lookin' for work and you're being selfish. The government's gotta give you dole money. We'll see you in a couple of days, Conrad. You just think about our people.'

They stood up and went out without a smile.

IT'S ALL IN THE GAME

On Monday morning Conrad stood outside a glass-fronted office reading the address that Hedgeman had given him.

ELIOT PHILLIPS

GOLDMAN INSURANCE PTY. LTD

34 BREND STREET

SYDNEY

The problem was he had to be so careful. Hedgeman was using him, that was certain— but in what way? Just to make himself look good, or something else?

The office had gold lettering on the door, yet it was all down-market. The woman at the desk was overweight, wearing a twinset, thick pearls around her neck, and was well into her sixties. Even the furniture looked old, second-hand. Was this really ASIO?

'Can I help you?'

'Ah. Well, I've got an appointment with Mr Eliot Phillips.'

'Your name?' She looked at him distastefully, another interruption to her typing; yes, real typing on a Remington.

'Conrad Warren.'

She picked up the phone, pressed a button and after a pause began speaking in a soft voice. She put the phone down. 'You may go in now. The office at the end of the corridor.' She pointed with her biro.

As Conrad approached the door it opened and a large man stood there grinning at him. He looked nothing like an ASIO man, and nothing like James Bond. Eliot Phillips was overweight and balding.

'Good to see you!' he said heartily. They shook hands and sat facing each other. The office was amazingly small, almost cramped. Thick, heavy leather books filled the bookshelves. Folders of all kinds spilled out onto the scruffy carpet; papers were everywhere, scattered over the desk, piled on the floor, stuffed in the drawers. The phone on the desk looked ancient, with a rotary dial. The desk had only one device that looked modern: a laptop computer. Obviously it was fighting a losing battle against the sheets of paper breeding ceaselessly in the bookshelves and folders at night.

'Um ... Detective-Inspector Hedgeman sent me along ... he told me there was a job ... available.'

'Ah, Hedgeman. So he told you everything?'

'Hardly anything. Something about ASIO?'

'Of course. Do you have a driver's licence?'

'Yes.'

'You know Sydney well?'

'Pretty well.'

'Where do you live?'

'Newtown.'

'Which roads would you go down to get from Town Hall to Edgecliff?'

'Park Street, William Street, Bayswater Road, and New South Head Road.'

What's the name of a road that will take you from Parramatta Road to Auburn?'

'Station Road would do it.'

'You healthy?'

'Yep, most of the time.'

'Listen to this carefully: Mr Ranji Myron met two men at three p.m., the first man's name was Jacob Barrington. He caught a number forty-seven bus from Wynyard station to Central, and then caught a Hornsby train arriving at Lindfield station at 9:10. You got that? Now repeat it.'

'Mr Ranji Myron met two men at three p.m. The first man's name was Jacob Barrington. He caught a number forty-seven bus from Wynyard station to Central, and then caught a train to Hornsby, which arrived at Lindfield station at ... 9:10. You got that? Now repeat it.'

'What was the second man's name?'

'Jacob ... no. You didn't say.'

'What train did he catch?'

'A Hornsby train.'

'Tell me about yourself, Warren. What are your interests?'

'Music. Reading. Staying alive.'

'That's not very impressive. Everybody has those three. What sort of music? Are you afraid to tell me something about yourself, or are you just dull?'

'Mozart. Sibelius.'

'Debussy?'

'Not much.'

'Do you really expect me to believe you know the first thing about music?' Eliot was suddenly sneering at him. 'You're simply trying to impress me to get this job. Why should I give it to you when I had an ex-soldier in here this morning who had a degree in political science and could speak three languages? All you're interested in is the money, isn't it? You're an Abo, and I've never met one who knew the first thing about music apart from John Williamson or Slim Dusty. You wouldn't know Mozart from Wagner, you're full of shit, Warren. If you're trying to impress me with bullshit, you'd better just fuck off. There's a queue of people after this job.'

Conrad said nothing, staring patiently at Eliot Phillips.

'I don't know why Hedgeman sent you. I didn't ask for a coon. I said someone with education, brains ... this job needs someone who can think things out, not some wimp who gets pushed around. Someone who's got enough guts to stand up for himself. I want an agent not a fucking turkey. I don't know what Hedgeman thinks he's doing sending you around here.' Phillips' face showed disgust at the waste of his time.

'Maybe he's trying to punish both of us.'

Suddenly Phillips burst into sustained laughter. 'Sure, I'll pay you that one. All right. Tell me the name of three pieces by Mozart.'

'Tristan and Isolde. Siegfried Idyll. The Ring.' Conrad didn't even smile; at this stage he hardly cared if he got the job or not.

Phillips laughed. 'You're doing well. Let's relax a little.' He opened up a small bar fridge behind his desk, papers slid onto the floor. 'What would you like?'

'Nothing, thanks.'

'Nothing? Come on, no hard feelings. The tests are all over, you've passed. Relax, have a drink. What's your favourite beer, Johnny Walker?'

'I don't drink alcohol.'

'At all?'

'No.'

'That could be a problem. Seriously. Could you learn to drink?'

'Not unless it was very important.'

'Okay then.' He poured himself a Johnny Walker and water, picked it up carefully and sipped it. 'Any questions?'

'Yes, lots. Is this job really working for ASIO?'

'Of course.'

'Why here? What's all this insurance stuff?'

'Hey, what would you want, a big office with ASIO IS HERE written on the outside? We don't work that way. This insurance is a front. A cover, and the less you know about some things, the better off you are.'

'But why me? Why don't you use one of your own agents?'

'We don't have many left. After the Soviet Union split up we lost three- quarters of our staff. They took redundancy packages. We're down to a skeleton crew — we've even been told to make our cover jobs show a profit. Besides, we need a Koori for this job.'

'What's the job all about? I want to know everything. Hedgeman told me nothing.' Conrad leaned forward, ready to absorb.

'You don't want to know everything! All you want to know is what I'll tell you. In this game knowing everything can kill you.' Phillips leaned back dangerously in his swivel chair. 'We got word from the Mossad that a Palestinian terrorist cell have landed in Sydney. They came here from London last week and we suspect that their job is to kill an Israeli politician, a member of the Knesset, who will soon be on a visit to Australia. Or maybe not, maybe there's some other reason for them to be here. Whatever it is we want to know their purpose. The terrorists are living in Newtown, renting a terrace house; two Palestinians— but there could be more lurking about. They are not familiar with Sydney or Australian customs. We heard a rumour that they want a handyman, an Aboriginal from an underground organisation.'

'Why? Surely they'd get a Palestinian living here to help them?'

'No, there aren't that many here and they believe that the Palestinians are under surveillance and infiltrated by ASIO, which is quite true. They want to keep themselves separate, they probably want to do the hit and then get out without burning any of the local Palestinians.'

'I see, but you said they asked for an Aboriginal— '

'Yes. Remember Colonel Gaddafi met with an Aboriginal delegation a few years back and promised them support in their struggle for land rights? The Palestinians see Aboriginals as brothers struggling for land and justice. They don't trust white Australians because they fear they support Israel.'

'But why—'

'Please let me finish. We want you to go around to their house, tell them you are a member of a secret Aboriginal revolutionary group. You can make up a name. Go ahead.'

'Um ... Aborig—no Black ... United Black Force?'

'That'll do. United Black Force. Fine. That's the organisation that told you about the Palestinians needing a handyman.'

'But,' Conrad queried, 'what if they want to know more about the United Black Force, what if they want to check out the source? What if they want to talk to them?'

'Get the hang of things, Conrad, or you're finished. You belong to a secret organisation, no one else has heard of them. Just you and me are the only members. And brother, I ain't too sure that we're both coons!' Phillips laughed. 'You've got to protect your own organisation, right? So you can't breathe a word. Sure you can mention their name, you can tell about all the bombs they have let off. You can say how they have twenty cells across Australia. You can damn well say what you like and there's no one can prove you're wrong. You've got to protect your own organisation so you can't let them contact each other. Compartmentalisation. You're going to have to learn to think on your feet. You go and talk to them; you say you can show them around Sydney; you can buy them food, guns, whatever they want. If they want explosives, guns— whatever— you get back to me. I'll get it for you. Right? You have a car?'

'No.'

'Oh shit! I'll have to get you one tonight. Tell them you support their cause. Tell them whatever you think they want to hear. Listen to what they are saying then repeat it back to them in different words. Get the idea?'

'What I'll do is listen to what they are on about, then just change the words around, and repeat it back to them. Do you think that's a good idea?'

Phillips was smiling again. 'You'll make a good agent. Listen to every word they say. Probably they won't tell you things directly. They'll accidentally drop clues, hints— you've got to pick up on them. Get everything concerning the possible assassination of the Israeli, times, weapons ... whatever. The Israeli politician's name is Yossi Malka. We want details of everyone living in the house, everything about them. Phone me on this number.' He handed Conrad a business card. 'Memorise it.'

Below the phone number it said:

AGENT 86

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

DIVORCE ENQUIRIES

CONFIDENTIAL

––––––––

'Agent 86?' Conrad smiled.

'Yeah, I moonlight.'

'Agent 86? And who's that out in the front office, 99?'

'I've heard all those jokes before, Conrad.'

'You don't have the appearance of an ASIO agent.'

'Excellent. I might live longer. I hope you don't watch a lot of spy movies?'

'Very little, mostly Get Smart.'

'Good, you'll have fewer illusions to lose. This work is dangerous. I warn you, mess it up or get careless, and you're dead. These people have killed before, men, women, and children. It doesn't matter who, so long as it furthers their cause.'

'A Palestinian homeland?'

'You got it. No matter who dies.'

'But I thought Arafat and Rabin— '

'Forget about peace in our time. These terrorists are against the PLO plan. They are a breakaway of the PFLP, they hate Arafat. Conrad, I'll warn you again, you give yourself away and you are dead. They'll kill you. They have no compassion, they are fanatics. How do you feel?'

'Nervous.'

'Don't worry. It's really a piece of piss.'

'Everyone keeps saying that to me.'

'Well it is. You just help them do whatever they want to do. Don't try to influence them or stop them. Help them one hundred percent, just so long as you let me know what is going on.'

'How long do I do this for?'

'About two or three weeks, until we know everything about them.'

'That's not what Hedgeman told me. He said a month. A thousand dollars a week, each week in advance.'

'Hedgeman's a fucking liar. I told him myself six hundred; he was just sucking you in. The Palestinians should pay you five hundred a week on top of that. Ask for it. Tell them your organisation needs money. You give us the information we're after and there's another week's pay at the end. Okay?'

'I suppose so. I'm broke. A week in advance? And the car?'

'Three hundred in advance, not a cent more. The car will be parked outside your house tonight. The key will be put in your letterbox at midnight. Sign this receipt, and I'll get you some cash.'

'What kind? An Aston Martin? Do I keep it?'

'I don't know what kind, something disposable. Don't keep it. When you're finished with it, park it somewhere and tell me. We'll get rid of it. Any questions?'

'So I just phone this number any time?'

'Yes, there's a recording machine. Just say whatever you've got to say. No codes, no bullshit. Now here's the address of the Palestinians. You tell them you were sent by—'

‘The United Black Force.’

‘As a general driver, handyman. You can get them weapons, or explosives— you have secret contacts. Write your home address on this paper.’

Conrad wrote out his address and handed it across. Eliot Phillips put on his glasses to read it.

‘So that’s it, I’m on the payroll?’

‘No worries.’

‘What if they ask me about Palestine, the West Bank and all that sort of thing? I don’t know much about it.’

‘It doesn’t matter, they aren’t employing you for your knowledge of the West Bank. Just be sympathetic.’

‘Yeah but what happens if they don’t believe I’m on the level?’

‘No worries. They’ll kill you.’

‘No worries?’

‘Sure, it’ll be too quick to think about. A bullet or a knife in the back, straight into the heart. You want out? Your job is to convince them you’re helping them. No more questions?’

‘Why am I doing this?’

‘To help the world.’ Phillips pushed a bunch of crisp notes across the table. ‘Or for the six hundred bucks a week. Take your pick.’

LITTLE DEUCE COUPE

Conrad couldn't have slept even if he had tried. He was waiting for the midnight special, the sound of an ignition key being dropped into the letter box, the sound of a car squeezing into a vacant space near his house. It would need good luck to get within eighty metres. And of course he heard cars, hundreds of cars— parking, driving off, driving past, letting passengers out, cruising.

And there was still this business of Masher and land rights worrying him. Conrad felt sure they wouldn't understand. His heart was running too fast to sleep, too fast to lie down in comfort; his arms and legs felt restless, and at twelve minutes past eleven he decided to go for a quick walk— no, a jog would be safer at night. That would get rid of his tension.

He was thrilled with the idea of getting a car again. Any car beats walking. A car always gave him a sense of independence: he could go anywhere, pack all his possessions in it and be self-contained, out of the rain, out of the heat. What sort of a car would they give him? An ex-ASIO vehicle? A clapped-out Porsche? A bullet-riddled Mercedes? A Phase 3 Falcon? A little Deuce Coupe?

He jogged down to King Street, turned and picked up speed as he past I HAVE A DREAM! Someone called out to him from the shadows: 'Hey Punk, come 'ere!' He kept going, breathing easily as cars swished past, the shops shutting up for the night, a train rumbled into Newtown station, hissing air brakes, cops out-a-cruising, a punter dragging money from the ATM, a working girl looking for love, loud-talking drunks waving at occupied cabs. His legs felt strong as he turned back for home, his eyes probing the shadows looking for a Palestinian ambush.

He got back at eleven thirty-two, puffing and sweating in the cool night air, but feeling less tense, arms and legs looser. That left twenty-eight minutes— assuming they meant exactly midnight. And that was what he expected, they were professionals. Everything would be exact, perfect. He could hardly believe he was working for ASIO, it was incredible, something from Fantasy Island. Since no one was about as he came in the front gate, he decided to check the letter box. There were two keys on the bottom, a tag attached: Falcon. He stared at the keys in his hand, feeling uneasy. Midnight, Phillips had said, not eleven thirty-two. If they were going to work together, they should be accurate. What if someone else had found them? He walked back down the street looking for a Falcon. It didn't even have the registration number written on the tag. There were two Falcons, but one looked familiar, the other a stranger.

Standing in front of the unfamiliar Falcon, dimly lit by street lights, Conrad nervously tried the key in the driver's door: it fitted. He got in and sat behind the steering wheel and smiled. It was an old car, a '69 XT Falcon sedan, the seats torn, the inside smelt of stale cigarettes— or was it pot?

'Hey, my own car again.'

Conrad put the key in the ignition and tried to start it. The engine whined and whined before spluttering into life. It ran rough, as though the timing was out. He put it into Drive, switched the headlights on and pulled away from the gutter. He drove a block before thinking to check the fuel level, which hovered on E. He turned back and parked it in the same spot, got out and walked around it and understood what Elliot Phillips had meant by disposable.

Sleep didn't come to Conrad Warren until after two a.m. And even then, it wasn't the sleep of the just. He dreamt he was sitting in the shell of a burnt out Falcon, without doors, without wheels, the suspension supported by bricks. A street gang armed with knives and clubs were steadily creeping up behind him. And it was his own fault: he had betrayed them, sold them out, promised to help them, do anything to help them, and then sold them out. He turned the key in the ignition, but the starter motor just whined uselessly, more slowly. The gang were getting closer and closer, yet he dared not turn to face them.

A loud banging on his door woke him. His mind leapt into wakefulness, while his heart got off to a sprint, then again—more hammering